Couch Surfing through Izmir, Ephasus, and Denizli, Turkey

Mark and I had such a great experience staying with Evrim that we decided to try our hand at couch surfing, you know, staying at people’s houses for free.  Previously, we thought it would be too awkward, too weird staying at someone’s home, but Evrim had caused us to reconsider.  We had been teaching Evrim the difference between “cheapskate” and “frugal” and we were testing the boundaries of frugal and heading into cheapskate territory.  We sent out emails requesting a two day stay in Izrim and out of nearly a dozen requests, we got one response from Khorhan in Bostinle, Izmir.  We hoped it would be a positive experience because we were otherwise looking at $70 per night accommodations which was quite the expense compared to $10-20 a night we had been used to in Africa.

Khorhan asked us to call him when we got to town, so we bought a phone card (yes, we’re still cheapskating our way along without a cell phone) and with the assistance of the salesman, used a public pay phone to call Khorhan.  “Take the public bus to Bostinle and get off at the last stop.  I’ll meet you there.”  Pamukkale bus line offered free shuttles to and from their main bus terminals, so we took the free thing without knowing exactly where we were going, just that we were heading towards the correct general vicinity.  Mark showed the bus driver our notes to verify that we were on the right course.  Eventually, the driver motioned for us to get out, so we dumped our bags and assessed the situation.  It was unclear where exactly we were, but we saw another pay phone, so we dialed Khorhan’s number.  We couldn’t see street signs to identify the intersection and communicating in English with the locals was out, so I motioned for a guy in a booth to follow me to the phone where he could speak in Turkish to Khorhan and describe where we were standing.  The booth attendant motioned for Mark and I to have a seat on a park bench and I gathered that Khorhan would be coming shortly.  Sure enough, a guy in a business suit walked up a few minutes later.

Khorhan introduced himself, admitted his insecurity about his intermediate English skills, and led us to his 5^th story apartment where we dumped our bags and headed down the street for supper.  He walked us to his favorite Kumpir restaurant (Kumpir is a gigantic loaded baked potato).  I ordered  a cheeseburger and beautifully tall, freshly squeezed orange/ pomegranate juice (my Turkish is severely limited, but with Khorhan’s English and the help of google translator, we all got what we wanted).  Even though Mark and I had suggested we buy Khorhan supper, Khorhan paid for Mark’s and my supper and handed us a pre-loaded bus/ferry pass.  “You’re my guests.”  We couldn’t believe it.  His gesture was so thoughtful and kind.  Back at the apartment, we moved a couch into the back bedroom so Khorhan could sleep in the laundry room while Mark and I occupied the living room which was decorated by DC/Marvel comic collectibles- think Morgan the IT wizard from the television series Chuck- the action figures are not toys, they’re collectibles housed in glass display cases.  For our reading pleasure, X-men and Fantastic Four comics hung in a magazine rack near the couch.

We were amazed at the tiring effect of riding a bus all day.  We apologized to Khorhan for going to bed early and made arrangements to leave at 8am the following day for Ephes, the modern day Ephasus from the Bible.  Before heading to work, Khorhan made sure we were on the right bus line and gave us directions for how to get where we needed to be.  The ride from Izmir to Ephasus took only an hour, but getting on the bus and shuttles to get there took about 4 hours.  We stopped at a restaurant to feed our new addiction for Turkish tea.  We took more tea and Nescafe on the bus.  Eventually, the bus dumped us out on a quiet roadside on the outskirts of Ephasus. 

Two taxis invited us to see the Virgin Mary for 50 lira.  We declined and continued 1 kilometer on foot toward the ancient ruins. The site was awesome.  My favorite stop was the two story, ivory colored stone library.  I loved the arches, entryways, statues.  I imagined  what the town must have looked like in its glory days.  It was stunning.  Marble pillars lined the stone path coming and going from the city.  A massive stone seat theater had been built into the hillsides to provide entertainment for the town’s inhabitants.  We walked through snapping pictures, imagining a typical day in the city.  We visited the excavated engraved tombs with their discovery dates painted on the sides in black.  It was all pretty cool to climb through.

We returned to Izmir and took our host out to dessert.  Again, he insisted on paying.  We were impressed with the overwhelming kindness we were being shown.  Back at the house, Khorhan showed me his part time I-stock online graphics company where he creates and sells artistic images for downloading.  We agreed to spend the following day, Sunday, sleeping in, doing laundry, and exploring the city.  The three of us took the ferry to the other side of town and strolled through the crowds in the parks along the shoreline.  The sun was shining, the temperatures were perfect, and we were on the prowl for a Starbucks when two gals jumped out of a bush, beer bottles in hand, and asked, “Hey, travelers!  Can you recommend a place to stay tonight?”  The plea sounded vaguely familiar.  Khorhan looked at Mark and I, and asked if we minded 2 extra housemates.  “We don’t mind.”  The Czech girls grabbed their backpacks and our group of 3 became 5.  We went out for mocha’s, Turkish coffee, and sweets together and Mark and I were finally able to pay for a meal (I’m telling you, Turks are some of the most generous people I’ve ever met).  Back at Khorhan’s, we drank beer, as all good Czech’s do (they’re very proud of their status as the world’s leaders in annual beer consumption) and talked about the differences in cultures.  The Czech girls thought it was weird that Americans like to talk about their feelings.  They explained that their diet was very similar to that of Germans: heavy gravies, dumplings, potatos, and above all else, meat.  Lanka and Llana explained that they were students living in Turkey while completing internships.  They slept on the living room floor in Mark’s and my sleeping bags while Mark and I shared a futon laying head to foot, foot to head.  When Khorhan turned the light out and went to bed in the laundry room he peeked his head in the door and said, “Don’t stay up late talking without me or I’ll be sad.”  We giggled like kids at a slumber party.

In the morning, we went to a bakery and ate family-style.  The Czech gals paid for breakfast.  From there, we crammed into a taxi and headed to the bus station.  We gave hugs goodbye and headed to Pamukkale where we hoped to see the calcium waterfalls that appear as jacuzzi’s placed in snow, but first, we would be meeting our next couch-surfing host, Gorkem, a master’s graduate in Bizintine Art.  We got dropped off at Denizli’s University where we reveled in the surrounding snow-capped mountain views.  We were told that the town had a population of maybe 100,000 people, but it definitely had more like 1 million.  Like every international couch surfing experience, the beginning can be a bit awkward.  This was no exception.  The first payphone call inadvertently hung up on Gorkem when the card ran out of minutes.  I pantomimed my way through borrowing a cell phone form some female med students and explained where we were at on campus.  Mark and I received instructions to walk back to the bus stop and wait without a description of who to expect.  We stood and waited patiently, a new skill for us.  Soon enough, Gorkem arrived.  He was tall, thin, dressed in jeans and an army green blazer with his long, dark hair pulled back into a pony-tail.  We walked to his 1 bedroom apartment about ½ a mile down the road.  We were excited to see that he had adopted a loveable neighborhood cat affectionately named “watermelon.”  We sat down for tea and then went out to a traditional lamb-wrap supper downtown.  I discovered that I enjoy Ayran drinkable yougart in the glass bottle.  Then we went out to Nargali (shisha/hookah) and kiwi tea.  Our well-educated host launched into the politics of the road construction.  “It’s 4 months before elections, so all of the roads are getting repaired.”  He lamented that Turkey is turning into “little America” which he felt was a materialistic mistake for his country because it wouldn’t make them happy.  Like two peas in a pod, Gorkem and Mark discussed their favorite topic, one that Americans tend to shy away from, politics.

 I kept thinking about what a unique experience it was to meet random people through couch-surfing.  I thought it was neat that we were meeting so many people with varied and often-times conflicting perspectives.  I was fascinated to be experiencing first-hand the daily lives of Turkish people.  It’s one thing to see a country as you’re moving through as a tourist and it’s totally another when you are a guest in someone’s home.  I was amazed by the level of trust it takes to allow a stranger into your home, to commit to giving them your time and energy, guidance, and insight.  I felt fortunate for our age and flexibility because I couldn’t think of a better way to see Turkey.

Goodbye Istanbul! We love you!

I knew that I would love Turkey, but Istanbul surpassed my expectations. I hold Evrim, our delightful hostess, responsible for this. We had arrived from Africa, worn down after 3 months of budget travel. I felt tired. Mark felt depressed. We had lived for 3 months without responsibility, contributing nothing to society aside from our financial contribution (well, that and a few items that were taken without our consent). Travel is incredible, but at some point it just loses its luster. When travel loses its luster, I’ve found that what works best for me is to just wait it out, slow things down and wait for the glitter to return. Fortunately, God was working on our behalf to bring back the razzle-dazzle of travel, and meeting Evrim was exactly what we needed at exactly the right time. Things slowed down, we met friends, and found a sense of community. It was the perfect recipe for coping with a case of travel fatigue.

For starters, meeting locals was a huge boost to our learning curve. Instead of getting frustrated about blocked websites, we got the work-arounds for our computer woes. Tolga introduced us to ktunnel.com, a website that allowed us to illegally access our blogs. Evrim introduced us to diziport.com where we could watch movies and catch up on our television series for free. Cue the final episodes of Dexter, Desperate Housewives, Chuck, and Smallville…all in English!

Lord knows I love to laugh, and Evrim’s sense of humor is hilarious. Almost daily, she would put on an unintentional comedy routine of pantomiming to explain cultural habits. On more than one occasion, I nearly lost a mouthful of water to her skits. One skit had to do with her saucy contempt for Turkish men and their ever-present twirling tespih (they’re like a wrist-size necklace of beads). With one hand behind her back, she put on a lazy look, stuck out her stomach, and walked hips first while twirling the beads in her free hand. “Look what I can do; I’m important,” she joked as she flipped the beads like a lifeguard twirling a whistle. Another of her skits had to do with the Turkish men and their Turkish Balconies. She explained, “American men look pregnant, but Turkish men, French balcony maybe.” I loved her humor. When she talked to her friends on the phone in rapid Turkish, I would pick up the occasional, “AllahAllah!” the Turkish equivalent of OMG which always made me laugh. She came home one day from a meeting with her boss and explained how he had harped on her about the importance of keeping a professional appearance, “I’m not supermodel, not celebrity!” was her response. “Maybe next year, ah?” She was heading into the heavy season for tourists and hadn’t worked in nearly two weeks (um, more specifically, since we arrived). With concern, her parents called and suggested she should go in to the office. “Very sick (she fake coughed into the phone).”- We laughed hysterically. It was impossible to find her anything other than adorably cheeky.

In addition to her comedy skills, Evrim was one hell of a cook in the kitchen. For two weeks, I said “Yes, please,” to bread carbs and sweets. I mean, why not? I was wearing Evrim’s jeans and sweaters, her scarves. Without my clothes for reference, I didn’t notice how much my “Turkish balcony” was growing. On the last day, when I suggested to Kemet, Evrim’s cousin, that I wasn’t thrilled about this development, she endorsed pilates. I was already walking up to 10 miles each day; really I think there’s no amount of exercise that can keep up with a Turkish cook.

In addition to the normalacy of movies and television, humor, and food, Istanbul offered even more little gems. Turkish people adore Americans, and I began to understand and articulate how different and similar we are. People talk about Americans sphere of comfort/personal space being large, about 3 feet, but I felt it in Turkey as I watched women fawn over my husband. With Turkish women¸ the boundaries of a married man are very small, not even centimeters. Turkish women love to sit beside and touch my husband which threatens me less than I thought it would. Mark and I joked that we could make a lot of money in Turkey by selling perfume called “American Passport.” The tagline would be something along the lines of “It’s intoxicating. It smells like money.” Don’t be deceived, people in Istanbul are doing very well; in many ways, they live very similarly to Americans in New York; they just like what they see in Hollywood.

One night on the bus, Mark and I met a family on holiday from Boston. I instantly knew they were Americans because they talked in loud voices (think Texan), had an attitude of superiority (we’re not even aware of it), and huddled together in a tight group (it’s natural for us to remove the 3 foot barrier when facing a foreign environment). They talked in mild complaints, “When is this bus going to get here? It’s been 10 minutes already!” and worried about directions (“Is this the spot for the 42T bus to Taksim?” and after asking many people for confirmation of their directions, their mild impatience grew). They were a lovely family, and we enjoyed talking with them, and I appreciated how watching them helped me articulate how Americans are perceived in the world- all of this behavior we exhibit without even being aware of it. On this trip, I’ve gotten better at spotting Americans and Canadians from a distance. We dress for comfort whereas Europeans wear tight-fitted clothes regardless of their size or shape. For example, on the beach, the 60 year olds in speedos and bikinis are from Europe. On the street, the American/ Canadian is the one in comfortable baggy clothes, sneakers, and an untucked t-shirt. Oftentimes, we add a baseball cap for good measure. The European, on the other hand, has on brown or black dress shoes, a tucked in shirt with dress slacks, rarely blue-jeans. It’s something I’ve been self conscious about as I travel, but until I saw the Boston family, I’ve been unable to articulate what it looks like to be a foreigner.

In Turkey, I discovered that nearly everyone adores Ataturk, the Father of Turkey. He gave his people a new written language which united their country. In his honor, there are posters, banners, and monuments throughout the city. It’s not just a propaganda campaign; Turks really believe in this man. They display their pride in clothing labels and tatoos. Although Ataturk created a uniting language, it is not the easiest one for Americans to learn. In fact, it’s quite difficult. I couldn’t figure out the dishwasher or washing machine without assistance, couldn’t figure out how to turn on the television or laptop, but finally, after two weeks, I could pronounce Bisiktas (prounounced “bish-ick-tash”), Evrim’s favorite football team (which, by the way, Mark and I have adopted this team as our own; we like their black eagle mascot which is proudly displayed on black and grey stripes). Prounounciation got a little better for me when I heard that c’s and s’s with the squiggly lines underneath are meant to be pronounced as “ch” or “sh.” Still, to put it mildly, my Turkish could use improvement, especially after that accidental cussing incident at the supper table (I was trying to say “Health to the chef’s hands,” honest).

To learn bits of the language was wonderful, but to stay at a place that felt like home was really the best part of Istanbul. It felt so much like home, Mark and I considered staying. We toured Turkey’s prestigious private campus of Koc University to check into their graduate programs. Unlike the Embassy debacle, we were invited into the security shed to wait for an English-speaking representative, without an appointment. We were invited in for tea at the campus’ admissions office, and a representative took us on an impromptu tour. Finally, the representative connected us with return shuttle, a 2 hour trip by bus, but just 1 hour by shuttle. So, Hawaii is out, and Turkey is on the burner for Fall of 2011. We’ll see what happens. It could mean a 2 year return to Istanbul Fall of 2011. 

So, after 2 weeks of enjoying Istanbul, we announced to Evrim that we would be leaving for Izrim. Anyone else in the world might have said, “Thank Allah,” but Evrim exclaimed, “Why!?!” We had started to feel the same way. We were quite comfortable in Istanbul. We’d figured out how to navigate the city of 16 million people. We could recognize landmarks like Galeta Tower where Freedom Street connects to Taksim Square which leads to Evrim’s house where we could play with Tiffany, her sassy black cat. We had a routine of staying up late and waking up later. We liked our housemate and her friends, and the relaxed environment they lived in. Why leave? Well, there’s more of Turkey to see. So, here we are on a Luxury coach bus with personal televisions, cheese sandwiches, and Turkish tea… just 8 hours to Izmir where who knows what awaits us. We’re excited to find out.

Historical District and Annie’s Favorite Things- Istanbul, Turkey

On our second day in Instanbul, we ventured into the Historical District to walk and check out the Grand Bazaar, Hagia Sofia, and the Underground Cistern. Grand Bazaar is a sprawling indoor market filled with colorful, ornately decorated ceramic plates, stunningly gaudy jewelry, mountains of cascading scarves, pricey carpets, and over-the-top glass mosaic lanterns and globe lights. It’s a sight to behold. We sampled Turkish Delight (those cubes are an acquired gelatinous texture), and got invited in for tea while admiring Turkish rugs. One rug salesman caught my interest when he invited us in for tea and told me that he had actually been to my home state. I wouldn’t have believed him except that he specifically said he’d been to Aberdeen, South Dakota, where he sold $120,000 in rugs, his best one day sale ever. He relayed the story about getting a business card in Turkey and calling it several years later when he was in New York (where there is an Aberdeen, but, as he soon discovered, not the same Aberdeen where they ordered all of the carpets). He had to drive 3 days to deliver the carpets, and he admitted being “a little disappointed” with the appearance of the town (there’s not much there).

At Hagia Sofia, Mark and I rented a shared headset that informed us about the historical particulars of the church turned mosque. I couldn’t help but think about my dad’s childhood stories of grandpa Lohan tying the siblings together after they had fought; it was his way of teaching them to work together and get along. Mark and I had been arguing earlier in the morning, and here we were tethered together by earphones. We laughed everywhere we moved because we had to communicate about every detail of where we wanted to move and what we wanted to listen to. It was exactly what we needed.

Our last stop was the Underground Cistern, which was my favorite. The Basilica, as it’s also called, is an underground room with 12 rows of 28 round columns. The 105,000 sq ft room used to be filled with the water supply for the Great Palace of Constantinople and Topkapi Palace. I especially liked the 2 columns that had a snake-haired, protective Medusa turned on her side and upside down.

I enjoyed the miles of walking around town, admiring the architecture and sampling lattes and tea along the way. I loved figuring out the metro (subway), bus lines, and franikular systems. I liked the trendy, attractive styles in the windows (skinny jeans, tall boots, high heels, flowing feminine tops, colorful felt winter jackets), and the sounds of the bread salesmen pushing their carts through the street each morning yelling “Gaverick!” I loved watching women lower baskets of money down from their third story windows to buy bread from the salesmen below. I loved hearing Evrim explain that they did this because they were “lazy Turks.” I loved going to buy vegetables from the friendly entrepreneur at the street corner. The only words I knew were “Marahaba” and “Teshekuler” (Hello, and Thankyou), but somehow we managed to make the sale work every time. I loved the feel of Istanbul, the small shops with big windows, the open doors (despite the cold), the location (sprawling unique apartments with winding streets through the hills by the sea), the décor (ornate, traditional, colorful couches, drapes, and place settings), the food (bread carbs, white cheese, olives, tiny cups of tea, bakalava, whole fat milk- the kind of eating where my mouth celebrates and my stomach says, don’t worry, you can eat less tomorrow). I like Istanbul so much that I could easily envision myself living here for a few years. I wish it wasn’t so far away from family, because that’s the one factor that keeps Turkey from being the perfect place for grad school.

American Embassy

It was a good long run while it lasted: Southeast Asia, Mexico, India, Canada, Africa, and now Turkey… but now I was out of pages in my 2006 passport, and this was a problem because I still had countries to visit: Syria, Jordan, Israel, and Egypt. Fortunately, we had heard that it was possible to add pages at the American Embassy. Mark and I made our way by subway and bus to the American Embassy where I hoped to add blank visa pages to my full passport. Despite the flashing of our American passports, the security guard turned us away at the entrance. The guard wouldn’t even let us in the front door. She informed us that appointments are needed to obtain any services at the embassy. This offended me. It felt ironic that I could get invited into a stranger’s house, unannounced in the middle of the night, but I couldn’t enter the front door of my home country’s embassy at 2:30 pm on a weekday afternoon without an appointment. I was given tea by strangers, but couldn’t get shelter from the elements in even an American visitor’s center without an appointment. I mean, the building was huge. What was I paying all the employees to do all day if they couldn’t perform a simple task like getting me a few extra passport pages? “Tsk, tsk, tsk” (that’s the sound of Turkish disapproval).

I was especially peeved because it had taken us ½ the day to get to the Embassy (it’s not near the tourist areas) and it cost us $16 in transportation costs to get there and back. The 1st visit was a bust, so now I had to go 2 more times to get the passport pages (1 time to drop it off and another to pick it up). It was a Thursday and the Embassy was closed on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, so I was out of luck until Monday. Mark went online and booked our appointments for Monday at 10am. When we got there, it was a similar routine (think American DMV exported to Turkey). The guard out front stopped us before we could get to the entrance. “Do you have an appointment?” “Yes.” He checked the list. We weren’t on it. He told us to wait outside in the cold while he and his walkie talkie went inside. When he came back, he vaguely pointed to his left and motioned that we could enter. We approached the door and another guard shooed us further down the massive building (a building that didn’t blend into the community, I might add; it’s sprawling square marble on a massive hillside- very American, but not necessarily attractive or inviting). The signage was unclear and we couldn’t figure out how to find the entrance without assistance (major design flaw in a very recent building). A security guard had to show us how to get to the door, then came the x-ray and pat-down, much like at an airport. I was impressed by the “good cop” who offered to fill our empty water bottle with purified water. We continued through a glass and iron hallway where contrary to Thomas Friedman’s super-secure description, cats milled about the grounds (In “The World Is Flat” Friedman says “even birds don’t fly there”). Up an escalator and down a winding hall we found the passport and visa room. We looked around at maybe 10 barred service windows, unsure about exactly who our appointment would be with. A guy emerged and handed us a number, instructed us to go into another room for paperwork. We had been told that the fee for adding passport pages was $20 USD, but when I turned in the form, the woman told us she would need $164 plus shipping to process it. I was flabbergasted. How could the country I paid taxes to demand $82 to simply add visa pages to my passport. The labor is Turkish and it takes all of 2 minutes! I was outraged, but without pages, I was stuck. Mark had 5 pages left, so we withdrew his paperwork and processed only mine. I had to pay an additional 14 Turkish Lira to ship my passport through UPS (and wait in a 20 minute separate line to give them my address). I was boiling. In addition to my money, the bureaucracy was now wasting my time. As I waited in line, I overheard a man behind the counter berating a young Turkish girl who wanted a visa to visit America. I wanted to go up to the window and scold him, “this is not how we treat people!” I needed to get out of that building, away from the bureaucracy, back into outdoor freedom. It angered me to feel resentment toward my own Embassy. I hadn’t expected that. I’m the kind of proud American who cries when I hear the National Anthem being sung before games. I’m the kind of proud American who loves America as my home. And as a proud American, I gotta say, I think we can do better than we’re doing at the American Embassy in Turkey. Tsk, tsk, tsk…

Barber Shop Massage

Our legs became tired of walking, so we asked a 70 year old barber if we could sit and rest our legs a bit in his shop. He agreed, then, being the Turkish salesman that he was, he convinced Mark that he needed a beard trimming and massage. To seal the deal, he added a free massage for the wife. Well, that did sound nice, albeit strange. Smiling, Mark leaned back in the barber chair. I clicked pictures of the barber at work with his straight edge razor. The barber gave Mark a weak 2 minute arm and shoulder massage, then motioned for me to hop in the other barber chair. Feeling slightly awkward, I plopped down into the chair and watched as the barber shoved a magazine or newspaper into Mark’s hands. The barber covered his hands in some kind of lemon-scented pledge toner and slapped his hands together near his nose as he looked at me with eyes that twinkled in delight. “Don’t touch my face with that,” I pantomimed. Of course that’s exactly what he did. I closed my eyes and winced. He limply massaged my shoulders and hands. It was a pathetic massage; I wanted to get up and leave, but didn’t want to be offensive. He proceeded to unzip my fleece jacket, reach in to my bare shoulders, and massage my armpit. I thought to myself, “This really seems unnecessary.” He reached down my back and around to my stomach. Mark was engrossed in his magazine. Out loud, but not loud enough, I said something to the effect of, “Surely, this isn’t normal.” It was weird, but as a 70 year old barber with certainly no formal massage training, was this inappropriate? I reassured myself with the fact that Mark was sitting right next to me; it must be semi-normal. I told myself that as long as he didn’t touch anything inappropriate I would continue to just sit in the barber chair with my eyes closed. I felt relief when the barber leaned over and kissed my cheek like the massage had finally ended and I was being sent on my way. I opened my eyes and he put his arms out to continue the massage. “Ugh. I just want to be finished.” 15 minutes later, he finally quit. Looking back, I could have (should have) said I was uncomfortable and left. Who cares if he gets offended. But, I tried to justify his behavior and excuse it because he was old, he was inexperienced, he was lonely, he wouldn’t be inappropriate when my husband in the chair next to me. When we left the barber shop, I told Mark what happened and from his reaction instantly realized that this guy had been inappropriate. I felt embarrassed, but we laughed it off. When a 70 year old man takes advantage of you in his Turkish barber shop, there’s not much recourse.

How’d you end up in Istanbul, Turkey?

When I skyped my sister tonight (3/19/11), she said, “I thought you guys were in Africa. How the heck did you end up in Istanbul, Turkey?” I laughed hysterically. Turkey had been on my list for awhile, ever since I met the Vrettos family. Bill and Nancy Vrettos spent one year of their lives in a van traveling the whole world, and when I asked Nancy what her favorite place was, she replied with stars in her eyes, “Turkey.” Other travelers had since backed the endorsement. I mean, what’s not to love about a place that marries east and west, juxtaposes extravagance and poverty, and displays historical ruins in a friendly culture? I had to see Turkey, and when I looked that the world map, Africa looked… well… close-ish… So, after 3 months in Africa, we were ready for a change of scenery, and Turkey fit the bill. We booked a flight to Istanbul and made plans to backpack south through the Middle East until our final flight departs 2 months later out of Cairo, Egypt (5/4/11).

We arrived in Instanbul in the middle of the night and felt relieved that we had purchased $12 used jackets in Africa. It was snowing and windy cold, quite the contrast to the balmy tropics we had just come from. We took a greyhound type bus from the airport to Taksim square where we began asking taxi drivers if they could recommend a hostel. To our astonishment, the taxi drivers spoke only Turkish, no English. There were no touts, no backpacker’s ghetto, just a well-lit square with restaurants. I started to worry. We didn’t have our Lonely Planet Guide, therefore no map, no hotel name, no address. How were we going to find an affordable place to stay at 1:30 in the morning? I started praying and looking around. I saw three people our age walking our direction, so I put on a smile, walked their direction, and asked, “Hey, could you guys recommend a hostel or guesthouse?” They talked amongst themselves for a few seconds and then Humera motioned toward Evrim and said, “She is inviting you into her house.” “Really?! I could hug you!” I replied. I was shocked; these people didn’t even know our names, and we were getting into a taxi with them to spend the night at their house. To Westerners, I think it sounds a little crazy, but the more I travel, the more I feel like this is normal.

A few minutes later, we arrived at Evrim’s 2nd story apartment in Osmanbey, Shisli. As Evrim opened the door, she said “By the way, I have a cat.” I nearly squealed with delight. As we took off our shoes and hung our jackets, we were issued guest slippers. Rather than usher us straight to bed (it was 2am by now), we sat in a beautiful formal living room where we were served Turkish tea, alcohol, and snacks including dried fruit and nuts. I couldn’t believe our good fortune. We were in Istanbul, Turkey chatting with locals, staying overnight in their home. The hospitality was more than I ever could have imagined. We learned about our hosts: Humera the flight attendant; Tolga, Humera’s boyfriend, the group tour guide; and Evrim, the owner of an online tourism company providing services to Bodrum, her and Humera’s Mediterranean hometown. All of them were sweet, well-educated, English-speaking night-owls. They invited us out dancing; we explained that we had been flying literally all day and were early to bed types. We went to bed around 4:30am.

In the morning, Evrim and Humera prepared a Turkish feast, a breakfast of sesame covered gaverick (a bagel ring) with cheese and olives, eggs, cucumber and tomato salad, a triangular puffy cheese pastry, and of course, Turkish tea in tiny cups. Humera and Tolga walked us to the Metro station and showed us where and how to buy tokens and navigate the subway. It was Evrim’s birthday, so we asked if we could make her a Tex-Mex birthday supper complete with chocolate birthday cake. We shopped at Carefour, a chain grocery store for fajita supplies, and when we got back to Evrim’s, I looked at the package’s directions for the cake and realized I needed help- I couldn’t read Turkish, and aside from the front of the package, there weren’t any helpful pictures. Evrim looked at the box and exclaimed, “Oh, I love Pinneapple cake!” “Pinneapple?!” I thought the picture showed chocolate cake. I looked closer and realized there was a small hunk of coconut next to the cake, “Oh, you mean coconut.” We both started laughing. Evrim translated the proper cooking time, number of eggs and so forth, and we were rolling along quite nicely until I asked her if she had any baking powder for the tortillas. She got a very concerned look on her face, called her friend, then handed me the phone. In English, the friend explained that the cake didn’t need any more ingredients. I laughed and reassured him, the baking powder wasn’t for the cake, it was for the tortillas. In Turkish, the friend translated my words for Evrim. She laughed in relief. Tolga and Humera returned later that evening for birthday supper, and we enjoyed another wonderful evening of learning about Turkish culture and history.

Last Days in Africa- Nairobi, Kenya

It was a dusty, bumpy ride from Moshi to Nairobi. Perched on the armrest of the middle seat in the back row, I reveled in the beauty of the landscape past Mt. Kilimanjaro, Mt. Meru, and Masaai markets which were full of color, like a pack of skittles scattered and packed into a concentrated area. Dry plains covered by small shrubs whizzed past the bus windows. Desolate villages and occasional herds of goats dotted the horizon. Individuals waved and smiled as we bumped along the dirt path. I was awestruck by the beauty of the purple sunset. We stopped occasionally for police checks. At one stop, a police man waved at Mark and I in the back window. “Mambo,” Mark said through the open window. Sincerely impressed, the officer responded, “Oh, you are speaking Kiswahili.” “Kedogo,” a little bit. “Karibou” (welcome) he responded with a full smile.

As we neared the outskirts of Nairobi, Mark seemed unconcerned about accomodations, but Mike and I worried because the Lonely Planet Guide’s hotel picks were expensive. By camera phone flashlight, we tried to find an option with a good location on the map, but in the end, it didn’t matter. When we arrived at the bus stop, Mark negotiated a taxi ride to the driver’s suggested hotel with a free ATM stop in between. The first hotel was expensive and the first ATM didn’t work, but within a few stops, we had two $10 per night rooms at Voltage on Cross Road. It was late, and we were hungry, so we asked the front desk if they could recommend an inexpensive place to eat. Two smiling security guards escorted us through the seedy area of town. We laughed because the older security guard carried a wooden Masaai club which caused the road to part like the Red Sea. As we passed, a man threw his arms up, slowly backed up with a smile, and joked, “No problems here.” A few blocks down, we settled into a popular local café where we ordered beef and masala chips for ourselves and our two new friends.

At 8 am the following morning, we received a wake up knock. The security guard’s shift was ending and “Were we interested in a breakfast escort?” “We were sleeping,” I mumbled from my bed. An hour later, I was getting ready when a maid barged in with a smile. She didn’t knock, just let herself in. “Change sheets… laundry” she said as she shimmied around me to gather my pajamas and bed sheets in the crowded room. “Is there no sense of privacy here?” I wondered incredulously. Flabbergasted, I felt like laughing and telling her to get out at the same time.
It was Sunday and the streets of Nairobi were empty, quiet, perfect for walking around. Dennis, a street kid quickly attached himself to our group of 3. I tried to nicely explain that we weren’t going to give him money, but it took Mark’s stern voice to turn him around. We cruised around town on foot checking out the closed shops and the lovely University of Nairobi campus where my friend, Lauren, and I had once considered attending. Mark, Mike, and I stopped for a Snow Cap beer and water at a high end open air bar and got directions to a movie theater where they were playing the romantic comedy “How Do You Know?” with Reese Witherspoon, Paul Rudd, Owen Wilson, and Jack Nicholson. We made arrangements to visit Hell’s Gate National Park the following day, and made our way back to the hotel where we hung out in Mikes’ corner room with 180 degree sunset views.
In a major act of generosity, Mike offered to let Mark and I use his compact laptop for the remainder of our trip. We were over-joyed. Later, in a “Pride and Prejudice moment,” I accused Mark of being greedy and selfish with our new toy. “Darcy” astutely pointed out that I hadn’t shared his Kindle, and I was reminded of Byron Katie’s teachings about judgment. Whenever we judge, it has everything to do with ourselves and not other people; it is internal, not external. My infantile inner 2 year old had reared her unsharing head, demanding all of the attention and toys for herself. I was ashamed and appreciated Mark’s ability to keep my inner control freak in check.

On March 8th, our last full day in Nairobi, we used the PPS (like GPS, but “people positioning system”) to find a 50 cent matatu (local transport minibus) to Village Market, a classy high end UN area about 1 hour outside of city center. Village Market had a full water park complete with a lazy river and water slides. There was a modern book store and the lovely scent of apple grape mint hookah wafted in the air. We bought pizza and found a movie theater where they were playing a guy movie,” Faster” with The Rock. Again, we were the only people in the theater. As we finished the $6.50 hot car action matinee, we smelled ganga outside the theater. Using the PPS, the transport system was a breeze. Back at City Center, we went on a search for booze and a taxi for Mike’s midnight ride to the airport. Mike negotiated a night taxi and with a stroke of genius got the liquor store ride thrown in for free. We laughed as we bought beer and spirits from a few shady back alley stores where owners appeared like closet trolls behind open-shudder concrete counters. Apparently, a new law was enacted in Nairobi: In an effort to keep people working, liquor sales before 5pm were forbidden after January 1st. It was 6:30 pm, but we felt shady in that alley with the locals asking us to split a bottle with them.

We took our assorted beverages to the roof of our hotel where we navigated the rickety metal steps and PCV trip hazards. On the concrete roof with no railings, we laid out our seat pads with a stellar view of the city’s buildings. Mike, a former raft guide, asked if we were up for some games. We each made a list of the 5 things we want next in our lives. My list was something along the lines of 1)enjoy rooftop star-gazing with my African travel besties, 2)go to grad school, 3)start a family, 4)see my sister (miss ya, Stacey!), 5)do worthwhile work when I return home. Our second game had to do with creating a picture and getting interpretation. I painted a mental picture of a desert landscape. The flat yellow grasslands had a canyon with a 6 rung Mexican pine ladder, one shade tree next to a Mexican tienda/store where a dark brown horse bucked and galloped happily under purple skies of pleasant rain. Mark’s painting was white sand dunes with a 3 story ice cube that melted to create pasture lands where a white saddled Clydesdale submissively stood tall under stormy skies that created glass from lightening and a ladder reached up to the heavens. Mike’s picture had a 3 ft solid cube of granite on a pedestal with an in-charge white horse and ladder of 24 rungs. We laughed at the interpretations and insights into our personalities and relationships (which I can’t share in case we someday play this game together). We were shocked by the cold rooftop temperatures. I was wearing my new/used 1980’s bomber jacket and still freezing, so we adjourned to the tiny hotel room where the three of us sat on the bed and hung out until Mike’s midnight taxi arrived. Uncharacteristically early, the taxi driver honked at 11:50 pm. We distributed hugs all around and carried Mike’s bags down to the taxi. I said we’d miss our travel friend, “Jesus Rasta,” (as the locals knew him) and added that we’d especially miss him “because he’s so tiny!” which is the reason the teary-eyed staff at Kilimanjaro Backpackers gave when he left Moshi.

As we walked the streets, a 2 year old beggar girl in an unwashed yellow dress grabbed my hand which I found adorable, but she wouldn’t let go, so I tickled her tummy to make her let go. She chased me and when I reached down to tickle her tummy again, in a protest to my failure to give money, she fiercely grabbed my hair and wouldn’t let go. My reaction surprised me; I wanted to grab her hair, but she was bald, so I tugged hard on her ear until she eventually loosened her grip.

On the morning of March 9th, 2011 Mark and I made preparations to fly from Nairobi, Kenya to Istanbul, Turkey. Rather than pay a taxi $13 to deliver us to the airport, we sought out a $2 public bus. From city center, we drug our bags a few blocks to the Ambassador area where we used the PPS to find bus #34 to the airport. With our bags stacked at our side, we occupied the front seat of the bus, next to the driver. From here, we could enjoy the remaining bits of Nairobi, the last of our 2011 African holiday. The sky was a pretty shade of light clean blue, no smog in sight. Mark and I talked about how much we had enjoyed 2 ½ months in Africa and how much we were looking forward to something different; we planned to spend the following two months in Turkey, Greece, and the Middle East.

Highway to Hell's Gate National Park- Kenya

Hell’s Gate National Park is located about 2 hours from Nairobi. For $50 each, we made arrangements with Patrick, a local tour company owner, to have an experienced guide drive us to and through the park, guide us through the canyon, and provide a nice lunch. Patrick suggested we take as much time as possible to enjoy the park, so we agreed to be ready for a 6 am pick up. Patrick stressed that we would go on English time, not African time (which tends to run much later), so we were surprised that our driver still hadn’t arrived by 6:30 am. We called Patrick and he said he’d call a driver and someone would arrive within 20 minutes. This seemed like an uncool way start to the trip, especially because we received a note the previous night that the park fees had gone up and our trip fee would be higher than we had agreed upon. Still, we wanted to enjoy the day, so we didn’t complain.

Naftali, our driver, arrived at 6:50 am. We briefly stopped at a petrol station where we paid the remainder of our trip fee and Naftali put 1,000 shillings of petrol in the tank. At the gas station, I bought a latte, and Mike bought vodka to cope with the driver’s wild driving. Some of the world’s fastest runners come from Kenya, so it was not surprising to see several runners in training off the highways leaving of Nairobi. As we drove, the landscape changed from tropical green tree-filled hillsides to dry yellow plains with the occasional cactus tree. Speed-bumps emerged without warning, and because the tiny vehicle was cruising too quickly, we hit our heads on the car’s ceiling a few times. The Hell’s Gate sign neared and we realized our driver hadn’t picked up our lunch, so we reminded him that lunch was promised to us. It appeared to be the first he’d heard about the lunch arrangement. Reluctantly, he drove to a market to seek out lunch. The best we could find was a tortilla-like piece of chapatti wrapped in egg omlette, accompanied by a hard-boiled egg for each of us. We bought our own sodas, and played with some small children while we waited for the lunches to cook. I taught the kids how to gallop and skip. We joked with a little girl who had a dangerous plastic bag on her head. From a few feet away, another little boy with two empty glass alcohol bottles watched us. As we waited in the car for the driver, the kids went from being friendly to being inquisitive and demanding. “Give me money.” “Where’s my sweets?” they asked with their hands held out. “Where’s my friendship?” Mark responded. I smiled and gave them high fives, pounders, pretended I didn’t know what they were talking about. Admittedly, I wanted to give them sweets, but I knew it was like feeding the animals, something irresistible but bad for long-term development (there are signs in some areas that caution against giving to begging children because instead of becoming artists and businesspeople they may become beggars).

At the Hell’s Gate National Park gate, we paid an extra $5 each, making a total of $25 per person. We noted the bikes available for rent and felt happy that we were driving instead of pedaling the dirt roads. Naftali admitted that he had never been to the park before, so Mike showed him the map and explained that we wanted to get to the glassy black Obsidian caves. We slowly ventured down the beautiful quiet dirt path as Naftali argued with Patrick on his cell phone. Out the windows, we were seeing warthogs, zebras, gazelles, and impalas, therefore it was a game drive and Naftali wanted more money. Annoyed, we insisted, “You must work this out with Patrick because he agreed on this price.” “But petrol is expensive,” Naftali whined. “Talk to Patrick,” we firmly repeated. The 2 wheel drive path turned into a 4 wheel drive trail, but Naftali progressed. I was horrified as the leaves fell in the window and branches scraped the exterior of the car like nails on a chalk-board. The under-carriage rattled over the grass. Finally, the path became impossible to negotiable and we were forced to reverse, to retreat to the main road.
The winding path led down into a crater where multiple geysers released hot steaming gasses into the air like industrial smoke stacks. We passed giraffes and water buffalos until we reached the entrance to the slot canyon. We ate lunch at the hike entrance and I occasionally stood holding the driver’s wooden masaai simba club to keep the aggressive baboons at an acceptable distance from our food. Make no mistake, they recognize the power of the club. I felt powerful as I flexed and warned them to back away from our food.

After lunch, we descended into the slot canyon by foot. Our guide stayed in the car to nap which was just the same to us. He had so many strikes against him at this point, it was certain he would not receive a tip. We hiked in peace through the beautiful sandstone and obsidian layered canyon. For us Coloradans, it felt like home, the perfect way to contrast the bustling city, and the perfect way to conclude Africa. Herds of goats and cows roamed the ledges of the canyon, and as we progressed, streams of water flowed into a larger stream of water. It was totally peaceful. We negotiated the steps and crevices of rock ledges and emerald walls of waterfalls. Clear hot water gathered and steamed in small pools. The physical exertion of hiking felt great.
At one point in the hike, we ascended the canyon wall and heard distant shouting from the other side of the canyon. We looked up to see two women on a ledge. Using hand gestures, they instructed us to turn back. We turned around and made our way back to the canyon where a small boy, possibly one of the women’s sons, directed us how to negotiate the narrow section. Wet and dirty, we jumped through the rocks and continued following the helpful young boy as he led us to where the path began to widen. Ten minutes later, we parted ways and continued on our own. It was a beautiful four hour hike.

We returned to the car where Naftali informed us there wouldn’t be enough petrol to explore the volcanos, so we accepted a female Park Ranger as a passenger and turned back toward the park entrance. We drove quickly, faster than my preferred pace, but Naftali did slam the brakes to a stop when we asked for pictures of giraffes. Outside the park, Naftali continued to drive like we were on a 75 mph race track. Like the cars around him, he drove balls out blindly passing trucks while climbing uphill around corners, jockeying for position. Occasionally we were forced to wedge back into line with the other vehicles to avoid head on collisions. It was intense, especially because of the bald tires, squeaky brakes, texting, blaring radio, and lack of rear view mirror (it was facing Naftali instead of the rear traffic). A few times I wanted to yell “pole pole!” (slow down) because we would hit the ceiling without warning due to speed bumps or brakes slamming. I saw a sign that said “Drive responsibly. Recklessness kills.” I didn’t have a working seat belt, and I hoped he wasn’t going to accidentally kill us with his recklessness. At one point, Naftali was staring out the side window as the vehicles in front of us quickly came to a stop. “Stop!!!” I yelled. He finally slowed down slightly after that.

When we got back to the hotel, Patrick, the tour company owner met us at the door. I had heard that Kenyans (by their own admission) were direct and commanding, not like their polite, respectful Tanzanian neighbors, so I acted accordingly. When Patrick asked if I would be using their taxi to go to the airport, I told him that our driver had been reckless and there was poor communication about the tour, so we had a lovely day but would not be using their company or making recommendations for their company in the future. All that to say, we had a beautiful day and the slot canyon hike was incredible. If you ever go to Hell’s Gate (and I totally recommend it), I would suggest going through someone other than Naftali and Patrick (unless you can get them in writing to include enough petrol for the entire park, drive a reasonable speed, and keep to the agreed upon price).

Robbery in Moshi, Tanzania

On February 28th, between the hours of 6 & 8 pm, room #11 at the Granado Hotel, our hotel, was robbed. Mark and I came back from a pleasant supper and ice cream with our friend Mike, unlocked our hotel room door, and instantly I saw my backpack, open, empty. “My computer is gone!” I exclaimed. Mark tried to reassure me, “Are you sure? Maybe you misplaced it…” As he was speaking he realized that my TSA combo lock was shoved to the side; the zipper was physically pried open. It didn’t make sense that the laptop was gone because there were no signs of forced entry on the room. In fact, the door to our second floor room was locked when we arrived. “Is YOUR computer gone?” I asked. With both hands, Mark pulled his hair with worry, “Oh no! No! No! No!” “Check for Jesse’s digital camera!” I instructed. “F---!” “F---!” “F---!” I yelled in shock and frustration. How was this possible?

I opened the combo on my big duffle bag to reveal an open money belt, $160 US dollars cash gone and smaller bags opened, rummaged through. Mark’s bag was missing an ATM/debit card and the first aid kit was laid open. I tried to be rational: make a plan. “We’re going to make a list of the stolen items and go to the police right away.” Strangely enough, our passports were untouched. The Kindle book was left where I hid it, on our bed, in the open, under a Lonely Planet Guidebook. Our Steripen, used for purifying water, was untouched; same with my ipod. The burglery was puzzling because the TSA locks on our duffle bags were still locked while the TSA locks on our backpacks were ripped open. They must have had a new TSA master key we concluded. Further, they must have had a master room key because the door was locked behind them. It looked like an inside job.

Violated, we marched downstairs to the receptionist and reported the news and relayed our desire to involve the police immediately. Speaking in Swahili, the staff of 6-8 gathered in the lobby to discuss the problem. After 20 minutes of Swahili gossip, we demanded that the police get involved. At this point the staff informed us that we would need to take a taxi to the police station and that a staff member would accompany us. Guessing that it was an inside job and tired of the staff wasting our time, we declined the staff assistance and took a taxi two blocks to the police station where we found the staff already at the front counter relaying their side of the story. An officer named Adolf expressed sympathy for our loss and requested that we fill out a handwritten statement. He copied the statement by hand and placed it inside of a brown paper folder with our name and case number written neatly in pen on the front of the make-shift folder. We asked if we could borrow a computer to report the stolen debit card. Adolph offered us his personal cell phone and explained that there were no computers or phones at the station. We were shocked. How could a police office function without computers or phones? Officer Adolph then tore off a small slip of paper and wrote down his name, email address and personal cell phone number. “Come back tomorrow morning,” he instructed. The Police Chief joined Adolph behind the counter and expressed his condolences, “…these dubious criminals…” he lamented. Dubious? We looked at each other and wanted to laugh. The Chief confirmed our suspicious about the theft being an inside job. “There have been 6 or 7 thefts at this hotel. The Granado is the most robbed hotel in town along with the Zebra, Buffalo, and Golden Shower. Why would you stay there?” he reprimanded. “Better to stay with friends.” Geez, how could we have known that it was the most robbed $12 hotel in town? I told Mark that I couldn’t stay there another night, but he reassured me that the thieves weren’t coming back. Besides, we’d already paid for the night. I felt vulnerable, angry.

We propped a chair against the door and slept with a switchblade near the pillow. The power was still out which meant the ceiling fan wouldn’t work. I was hot, sweaty, angry, and helpless. With my headlamp on, I read for most of the night. In the morning, we packed our bags and attempted to collect our laundry. To make matters worse, the laundry lady tried to charge us 15,000 shillings instead of the 2,000 we had agreed on ($10 vs $1.30). Inside, I consciously told myself not to freak out on her. I instructed her to follow me to the front desk where we calmly but firmly hashed it out with the manager and paid the 2,000 shillings. How could she be so greedy after we’d already been robbed? I wanted to hate her, but told myself not to.

We drug our bags next door to the Kilamanjaro Coffee Lounge, our home away from home, our "Cheers Bar" where everyone knew our names. Over lattes, we relayed our story to Mike and he offered to watch our bags while we found a new hotel. The staff heard our story and hung their heads, “Pole sauna” (very sorry). We checked into a new hotel around the corner, Haria Hotel, then walked back to the police station to see if there were any new developments on our theft case. We were invited past the police station's front counter, past the men getting patted down for the holding cell, past the drunk albino out back, into an interrogation room where the hotel’s pregnant receptionist was still undergoing questioning with an investigator, Geofry, who had been assigned to our case. He told us to come back the following morning.

We spent our days sulking. The locals informed us that surely someone would come forward and offer us to buy back our laptops for a fee. We immediately offered a $100 reward if the items were recovered, but the locals informed us that they were afraid it wouldn’t be enough to recover our high dollar items. I realized this saddness could be attibuted to something more than a financial setback of replacing two laptops and a digital camera. More than the loss of security, privacy, and trust, this was a loss of connection with the outside world via blogs and pictures. Sharing the trip with friends and family from home was part of the joyful flavor of travel. Without that, we were isolated, disconnected, bored, sad. Without a face to blame, I fought the urge to blame everyone. I became suspicious of all Tanzanians in Moshi- who had been the watchman? Who had tailed us? Who dunnit? It was like a game of Clue without the satisfaction of a sure answer at the end of the game. Mark decided to play Matlock private eye and work the case backwards. He stirred up a beehive with the locals by telling them he wanted to buy a used computer on the black market. People started tailing us through town, inviting us into shady corners to check out stolen merchandise. A kid on a motorcycle wearing a pink backpack tracked us down all over town and tried to work angles through his network to find the right laptop sale.

The next morning, John, one of the rastas we’d been working with, found us on the street corner and became hostile. “Why weren’t you straight with me!” he accused. We explained how we were trying to recover our items but he was angry because he had spent the past 12 hours trying to work a deal on an alternative computer. He resented being deceived because late in the night he had driven to Arusha to get a computer that we’d never buy. The sheer amount of stolen laptops revealed to us was astounding. On the street corner things escalated as the rasta demanded compensation for his efforts. He made a threat that we weren’t safe now, that we’d pissed off the wrong circle in town. At that point, I’d had enough. I gave up being pleasant and gave myself permission to get mad. I raised my voice and laid into him, unloaded what had been building inside of me over the past several days. I stood taller and got assertive in his face. “Yes, this thief affected us all. He wasted your time and mine.” “You should have given up on your stuff and just left town,” the rasta hissed. I pointed out the hypocracy, “Well, you’re the rasta of peace and love; are you going to give up and walk away and be happy that your time is gone? You’re the salesman here. If someone stole your motorcycle you’d want it back. If someone took your leg as a mountain guide, you’d want it back. We’re students and rely on our computers for our education. We wanted them back.” I told him that he was part of the problem because he was selling stolen computers. I told him that this was a loss for the entire community of Moshi because people won’t stay and spend money where they don’t feel safe. “You feel angry about a loss of 12 hours of working? How long am I going to have to work to replace my laptop? I’ve spent 4 days wasting my time to recover my laptop. We all lost time and money on this problem!” I felt justified in yelling. If he was dealing in stolen computers then he should feel uncomfortable from time to time. The argument continued to escalate with hand gestures until a tall, thin, Tanzanian name Kunti, the salesmen that we’d bought jackets from a few days back, intervened and pulled us away to a second story outdoor balcony café. Like a wise judge he listened to our account of the altercation as he munched on an ear of corn. After listening, he said he thought he could help by taking us to meet with a higher official at the district police station. “The hotel must compensate you,” he stated. Mark offered to pay him $10 for his services. I was skeptical, but followed along. My heart was racing and I no longer felt safe in this town. Everyone seemed connected and clearly we’d disrupted the system where people typically move on. I expressed my concerns to the Haria Hotel owner, “Please keep an extra eye on our room and here’s a contact number if anything happens.” The hotel manager told me not to follow Kunti because he takes drugs. They also were concerned about where we were going because there was no district police office. I wasn’t sure who to trust and I was sure that the caffeine from two lattes was going to cause my heart to explode. Of course, at the police station nothing progressed, but I was reassured of my safety. “Go back to feeling as safe as you were before,” the investigator instructed. I felt a little better, but sternly chastened Mark, “No more stirring the beehive. Our things are gone. It’s been 4 days. I can’t live like this, worried about my safety, moping around town; it’s time to move on.”

We returned to Mike’s hostel, Kilamanjaro Backpackers, where the staff now recognized us as the ones who hung out with Rasta Jesus (Mike) every night. We cranked up the ceiling fan, turned up Johnny Cash, and slumped back on the bed where we relayed the day’s events. As a special tribute to Mark’s spirit of persistence, Mike cued up “I Won’t Back Down.” We laughed and decided to hit the local cinema for a 10 pm showing of “The Dark Knight.” As we sat in the empty balcony eating caramel corn, I said to Mark, “I feel like Abraham Lincoln.”

Mark and I bought 200 page paper notebooks. Computerless, I joked, “See, don’t you feel better now that you’ve replaced your ‘notebook’?” It sucked, but I had to admit, my pack was noticeably lighter now that my laptop was gone. Sure, my new notebook didn’t have a USB port to play DVDs, and I couldn’t google information, but it was a great source for traveler’s invention (I was there you weren’t therefore it must be true). Mark chimed in, “This notebook skypes with an assessor of yarn and a cup.” We sold ourselves on the many benefits, “You don’t have to charge it, and there’s a really low incidence of theft.” In total, we spent 4 days wallowing around the stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression. As we boarded the bus in Moshi with lighter packs, I felt hopeful that by leaving we could get to the final stage of grief, acceptance.